


Dog Tags: Millstones

by 07krysalis



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Alchohol use, Alcohol Action, Bartender Smoke, Bathroom Stall Stuff, Cheeky Mute, It's Mute's Birthday, M/M, Makes Out in British, RTIvAP is entirely made-up, Sexual Tension, Whisky Taste Test By Saliva Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07krysalis/pseuds/07krysalis
Summary: The final SAS field exercise for new recruits: Resistance to Interrogation via Adaptive Persona.To pass the test, one must be able to blend with the crowd, and never give into the unknown interrogator.Chandar isn't that good of an actor, whilst Porter has done this one too many times.





	Dog Tags: Millstones

* * *

Your identity is no one.

Your identity is _theirs_. Gray man, vacant canvas, human equivalent of assumption--sucked dry, wrung out, mangled sense of self. No fragments, no footprints, no future--all of you will be dictated by the ones around you. You are a mirror reflecting, refracting, copying, but never revealing. You are an exterior impassible yet empathetic, a house warm as home painted on the wall of another building. You are a you you never made, neither foreign nor familiar. Avoid getting blinkered, and you'll be slipping through the cracks, undetected and belonging, before you can even say knife.

Best of luck in the RTIvAP.

Dismissed, recruit.

* * *

  
**Tsunawatari Pub, Whitechapel, London**

**11 OCT ---- | 22:00**

**2 hours until conclusion of field exercise**

 

Glass doors kept ajar and inviting allowed a chill into the pub, as well as a distant humming of jazz that I didn't mind one bit. In fact, I was quite thankful for it; without the vague thrumming, the mahogany-themed place would sink into a self-inflicted depression. The hole in the wall would be rendered inhospitably mute, and blatantly desolate even with the delicate lighting that glowed red, because it was like placid wine showering me with warmth impalpable, lulling me into a symptom of boredom, which was a predetermined, unavoidable dazed fatigue. Four hours of waiting, sitting stationary and unnoticed--four hours of tolerance and forced down sighs--took its toll, whilst the physical training I underwent this morning subjected me even deeper into a permeating exhaustion. It was purely willpower and whisky that kept me kicking and alert.

The clear gold liquid swirled, giving off a blended aroma of basil, honey and sensibility. I warmed the glass with my hand, contemplating whether I should take a sip or just let it exude itself dry into the atmosphere where other people's conversations seemed to be dissipating as well. The half-open entrance transformed into a definite exit, suddenly I was the only one left sitting on a stool in front of the bar, eyeing the drink I ordered an hour ago. The traces of thyme, peppermint and grapefruit as well as the sweet oak finish still hadn't left the tip of my tongue; it was the flavor of grainy earth subdued and lukewarm saturating my taste buds. However, it deepened a sentiment I did not want to suffer from. _Isolation_.

"You're hard to please, aren't you?"

I glanced upwards, to meet the half gaze of the bartender polishing a wine glass. His folded black sleeves creased at every fluid motion his veined hands made. The leather apron tied around his waist threatened to pull apart--a yearning to tug at the loose strings scratched the back of my mind. I opened my alcohol-laced mouth to reply in a voice dry and cool. "I appreciate the taste, not the feeling that follows."

The bartender, with both his eyes now focused on me, let a grin of amusement show--it mocked me with sympathy and I felt the silent tension go up in smoke. His expression was inviting, relaxing even; his eyes of soft ash did not intimidate nor intrude. "Ah, _that,_ " he muttered, his sigh helped evaporate the pressure of my actual purpose. Immediate relief washed over me, and I felt as comfortable as he was. "May I interest you in my company?" he asked with a smile that contaminated me from the inside.

If only he were a woman.

The door swung open, struck the hard wall to its side--a loud thud resounded. The frigid wind was violent, and on the other side of the large glass windows, the night swept the streets diligently. The cold and pitch black were at arm's reach of the weathered pub lit up by weak bulbs; its thin walls divided the two worlds vainly. I shivered as the pervasive breeze pierced through my jacket. I searched the air for the whisky's mellow aroma that was sent away. My indifferent expression faltered with the missing heat. "Warmth would be much appreciated," I answered, citing the reality of the situation, avoiding personal agendas to be professed.

"I could give you that as well." He exited the back bar, moved towards the front entrance with ease in every step. Then the lock on the door clicked. With his head turned towards me, he removed his apron and hung it over his shoulder. Playing with his mouth was a smirk I could not endure too well. "So, once more," he paused to heighten the intensity in his anticipating tone, "may I interest you in another drink?" 

"How could I resist?" I could smell the scent of sweetness and alcohol again with the door closed and the air unmoved. Forced down my throat was the flustered component of my tone that stemmed from surprise at the bartender's suggestion. As the adaptive persona exercise dictated, I mirrored who he was, who he seemed to be: a pain in the arse with poise and charm.

He exhaled a low, innocent chuckle. It hung in the quiet atmosphere, transparent and genuine. It made the me underneath smile for a brief heartbeat. And I had to remind myself constantly of the reason why I was here in this unknown pub, sitting on a cushioned stool, drinking a beverage that arrested the senses: resistance to interrogation via adaptive persona. Six hours of posing as a civilian, defenseless clothing and everything, whilst adjusting and converting into an array personalities in order to project oneself naturally into the environment. I was here to perform, to lie, to withstand his magnetism. I was not here as myself, but as a vessel--a trained dog of the Queen and country.

But then, he sat next to me.

And all I did was hide my trembling fingers in my jacket's pockets, abandoning the firm grasp around the glass of anesthetizing alcohol. I was not certain whether he was the supposed interrogator of the field exercise, or a mere bartender who took an interest in me and my post-spring misery. I observed him closely, his figure, his uniform, his decisive motions. He threw the apron over the bar, carelessly letting it plummet onto the tiled floor. "Don't worry, I have a dozen of those."

I reckoned I had to chuckle at this remark, so I did. It was breathy like a whisper afraid of anyone to actually hear. He looked at me, expectant of another response. "Are you closing already?" I asked, noticing his more casual presence and remembering how he locked the door just a moment ago.

With his back against the bar counter, he reclined with his elbows on the counter and his head reclined. The red light overhead flickered and in that fleeting moment of absolute darkness, it felt as if he saw through me. "Yes," he admitted in an undertone, sounding hesitant at first, "I'd prefer it if you stayed though." He raised his head that manifested a shy yet hopeful face. "Care to tell me your name?"

The cold that disseminated earlier now could not be felt at all; mild and comforting was the undercurrent of the pub that pooled at my feet. I listened to the outside noises--the jazz still played but more subtler now. I could hear clearly his tapping fingers, my hitched breaths and the hum of the fridge under the hardwood counter. I could feel solace and suspicion, and there was no way out. "Tell me yours. Guess mine. Fair, isn't it?" My expression would reveal nothing, whilst my voice would be masked with his own. I took a sip of the whisky to stop the slight quivering of my tongue; it assaulted the throat with its sweet burn and cruelly delicate after-taste.

"Cheeky, but alright. I like games." A smirk accompanied his pleased tone. The emptied glass caught his eye, instinctively he confiscated it. Replacing the lost whisky in front of me was a flask he took out of his pocket. I let my gaze land on its smooth finish, curious as to what it withheld, interested as to how we would inevitably share it. " _James_. James Porter, bartender and _phenomenal_ companion."

A lighthearted tease of a laugh spilled out of my system. "Ha," I breathed out, turning my head towards him, "I am definitely having the time of my life."

I earned another timid grin from him. And it was enough to make me shudder.

One hour left. A wave of relief and distress coincided before washing over me.

The signature smell of whisky was gone again, and I thought, if James wore cologne, would I recognize him by his scent as well? He spun around his chair to face me directly; James leaned, arching his back and stretching the black suit. I felt trapped, but at least I was in the cage with him who spoke in muted tones. "Why do you want me to guess your name?"

"Why do you want me to stay?"

He scoffed, and in a brisk motion, grabbed the flask. "I thought that was obvious enough," he mouthed, scarcely audible; it was more of a confession than an explanation. He toyed with the stainless steel container, swirling it a few times before finally removing the cap. With his head thrown back, he gulped down. His neck caught the dim light the right way, and I had to stop myself from staring for an unsafe amount of seconds.

It was not obvious, at all, that you swung that way. It was not evident how you apparently batted for the other team. Did not cross my mind once that you were on that side of the fence, I wanted to say. But that wouldn't fit the conversation. That would make him feel an unease, an agitation, a rejection. That would not express an adaptive persona. So, as the lights overhead blinked once more, as the stray cats outside made their conflicts known, as the persistent flavor of whisky swathed my tongue, as the isolated pub began sinking into its own floorboards; I stood up, with pocketed hands and heated lungs, and bit my lips to ensure captivity. No matter what this field exercise required, I would submit. And presently, his wanting was top priority. "Well, here I am, Porter," said the soft voice that was not my own. "And I want to have a taste of your drink."

The rest of the anatomy I did not own, but the palpitating heart that reverberated was. 

His expression was obscured as he bowed underneath the gentle glow of the moon that seeped into the pub through cracks and glass. "Nikka Coffey Malt whisky. A harmonization of smoke, grain and sensibility," he said under a shaky breath before setting the flask down onto the counter. "I'm afraid, there wasn't enough for two."

"You can share with me the after-taste."

His dull gaze flared along with his steady hands. A hallucinated clock ticked the passing moments away: fleeting seconds of doubt, ephemeral instants of distrust, momentary blinks of the eye, rushed thoughts reminding how short-lived the night was. And somewhere in between the immediacy, a space was given just for longing and satisfaction. A designated place for relish and delicacy and experimentation.

His hand was rough against mine, firm and unyielding. He took me, breathless and unrelenting, to the back of the establishment. 

Where the lights were dimmer, quieter.

Where no glass window sabotaged the secret.

He pushed me against the concrete wall, after he kicked open the stall door. The thud rang in my ears like an alarm clock blaring, signalling me to wake up. Realization rattled the bones and I knew then what was to go down. And it was me. My lungs heaved, betrayed my composure. My heart swayed, with it I lost my reason. On the brink of collapse, I may have shown a tinge of fear in my eyes. A hint of anxiety laced with disgust.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" he exhaled into me, emanating warmth and familiarity. It enveloped my cold flesh, and thawed me.

His weight was all over me, rendering me immobile. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest along with the faint thumping of his heart. Further, further, I could feel myself being driven into madness.

We hadn't even started yet.

"No," I replied, looking at anywhere but him.

He took a step back, letting me breathe normally. A sigh left his mouth. "It doesn't feel right," he mumbled, dejection present in his frown, "You don't need to stay."

He was beginning to dissipate. I could not see his face with clarity anymore; his words went up into steam the moment they were pronounced. He was starting to abandon. I was becoming too opaque. The tiles behind me felt rigid. The vague light floated barely. I was doing something wrong. I was on the path to failure.

Was the adaptive persona supposed to feel?

I leaned in to close the distance. I looked at him straight in the eye, manifesting unblinking courage. 

I licked his lower lip with a heated tongue, a whisky-doused tongue.

He was unstirring, rooted on the spot from shock. But it did not last, it was just a static pause. It was him resolving, smirking. It was him inhaling the oxygen that was supposed to keep me alive. It was him taking over. It was a high-temperature coup d'état.

The kiss was a blend of violence and crave. It was impatient and aching--understanding and smothering. The groans were soft and afloat, lacing the air with the inclination for more. His tongue did pierce whilst mine did acquiesce; he permitted the alcohol in our mouths coalesce. Cedar, vanilla, tobacco--harmonization, as he would've said. And as we broke apart to pant, my sense of equilibrium wavered. I gasped for air--no, I gasped for him to come back. He bit my mouth too hard--I tasted iron, I tasted gunpowder, I tasted machine pistol ammo. We both breathed out laughter submerged in yearning, in dissatisfaction, whilst prolonging the inevitable.

I held the back of his neck, not allowing any more distance to interrupt. "If only I had hand-cuffs," he complained, hovering over my exhaling lips. A grin plagued his feverish expression as he yanked both my hands away, thrusting them over my head. Now, he declared me prisoner. Left hand clutching my wrists in place, right hand wandering all over. 

The tip of his nose traced the bare flesh of my neck. His hushed sighs trailed my skin. I could feel how alive he was.

And forgot where I was and who I was supposed to be. The only thing left to think about was release from this prison of stifled aches and muted thirst.

Resolute fingers found their way to my collar, grazed at the buttons keeping me from vulnerability. As he softly bit at the side of my neck, and exhaled sweet nothings disguised as quavering breaths, one-by-one the buttons came off. And the chill became more invasive that my fancy for warmth became heightened by the second.

I waited for him to spoil me. Then he let me go instead.

My arms collapsed to my side. Contending thoughts calmed down. A particular body part frustrated. Around me, frost seemed to propagate, filtering through the fabric of my jacket and shirt, cooling me to the core. At a stand-still, I looked at him, perplexed, discontent, and somewhat aggravated.

A new kind of smirk shaped his mouth. A fresh, untouched voice flowed out his soaked lips. "Got you winded, didn't I?" he uttered breathlessly, "Happy birthday." In his left hand, he tugged at the identification tag around my neck.

Dismay clotted my hastening blood, leaving me helpless, disillusioned and solitary. I snatched the necklace away, concealed it underneath my shirt again. Neither the adaptive persona nor the original self knew how to respond. I faced the interrogator I did no effort to discover. Six hours to resist and I ended up wanting more. I failed the exercise. "Sir, permission to leave, please," I muttered low after unnerved inhales.

"Relax, you failed the exercise a long time ago, mate," he clarified, collected, almost indifferent. I wondered whether he felt the same warmth or not. "You walk in, and immediately I recognize your eyes of a soldier's. To top it all off, I caught a glimpse of your dog tags, quite a burden, aren't they?"

My mouth remained unmoved with my head that stayed inclined. The bathroom suddenly reeked of urine and mire, now that I've halted the train of thought that carried only his scent. The reason behind me not being notified early on with my failure to execute the RTIvAP properly rammed my newfound composure.

"Look here," in a hoarse tone he told, lifting my head by the chin in the process to let our eyes meet again. "Don't feel gutted, mate. Failing the exercise means bugger all. You've already been selected. And tomorrow, you and I'd be training together."

"Aye," a vibrating voice crushed the silence that polluted the lingering air conclusively. There came nothing to mind, nothing to feel. Aimless torture, self-afflicted.

His expression was too difficult to decipher. Shallow frown and pondering eyes, how they observed intently and at the same time, saw past you. Every action of his was unforeseeable; he was a living, breathing assumption--that, I was sure of.

A flustered hand lifted itself up, finding its way onto my lips; I wiped the moisture off in slow, self-conscious gestures.

I nearly regretted everything, until he patted me on the head. His hand was soft, his voice careful. "Don't tell anyone. It's our own secret blend."

The after-taste was perpetually sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> Without someone to love  
> I'm left wandering all alone;  
> what I sing in the sunset,   
> in a red-colored singing voice--  
> that becomes some sort of consolation.
> 
> I cannot even show  
> my heart to the gentleman  
> I met on this unknown town--  
> yes, that's just how myself is right now.
> 
> [Hako Yamasaki 山崎ハコ - Wandering さすらい]


End file.
